


Of Steel

by Louffox



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Blood, Carlos Whump, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Cutting, For the most part, M/M, Self Harm, Smut, possible mental/personality disorder, seriously don't read if you'll get triggered, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos was not, by any definition of the word, a stable man.<br/>(The first, most obvious evidence for this being that he made his home in Night Vale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feed It

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT SERIOUSLY this is really dark, relative to what I normally write. I've been chewing my nails for days over whether to actually post this or not. I may remove it. I think it'll have a happy ending. I'm not sure. I'm just not sure about anything with this one.  
> ADVISORY: I am not in any way promoting self-harm. Do not ever ever ever do it. If anyone needs to talk, come on over to my tumblr and yell at me or with me or whatever you need. This fic might seem like it's not really condemning it, like it could seem like it's promoting it. I PROMISE YOU IT IS NOT.  
> Me on Tumblr==> fauxfoxfanatics.tumblr.com

Carlos was not, by any definition of the word, a stable man.

(The first, most obvious evidence for this being that he made his home in Night Vale.)

When Carlos began dating Cecil, they had a hard time getting their schedules to match up. Both of them were maybe a little bit in love with their work. So they quickly found that they needed to have some sort of routine to the time they spent together, so they could fit it in.

For example, Wednesdays were pizza nights. Carlos was sure to leave the lab a little early (he had Maud on standby to close up if people were still working) and would pick up Big Rico's on the way home. Cecil brought a bag lunch on those days so he could take a two hour break for supper, and be back in time (assuming time was actually a thing in Night Vale) for his show.

That Wednesday was like all the others. Carlos decided to get extra calamari as a treat for himself and his boyfriend, and drove home with his most cheerful music. He didn't try to kid himself. He was trying to stave off what he could feel coming on.

He went in the door and  kicked his shoes off. "I'm home!" he called, rather reduntantly, as Cecil was already coming around the corner. He took the pizza box and welcomed him in with a firm, if quick, kiss to the lips.

"You're gonna spoil your supper, snacking on those chocolate cranberry things again," Carlos chided gently, smiling at the taste.

"Well maybe if somebody didn't buy them for me all the time, I wouldn't be so sorely tempted!" he retorted as they went to the kitchen. "Oh damn, I shouldn't have eaten them, you got extra calamari!"

"Too bad for you!"

They ate with pleasant conversion, asking about each other's day. Cecil was training yet another intern (a thousand curses on the giant vultures that snagged intern Collin up and carried him to a certain death) and was having a tough time with it- intern Wendy, the new one, was incredibly allergic to cats, so Cecil had to take over all feeding and cleaning duties. Carlos talked a little about his research. He was trying to analyze the fragments of last week’s invasion by cyborg frogs from the future, trying to understand their power source, what year they were from, why they exploded on contact with the Dog Park’s gates.

Carlos found himself guiltily glancing at the clock. Eventually, Cecil had to go back to work, and left with another kiss- this one less quick, leaving them both a little breathless. He winked lewdly as he left, barefoot as always.

Carlos lasted four minutes after he left.

Then he was closing himself in the bathroom, locking the door even though he knew Cecil wouldn't be back for another two hours. He needed the security. He needed this.

His fingers found the little metal edge, jammed in the seam of the counter and cupboard against the wall, and pulled it out. A bottle of rubbing alcohol, four squares of toilet paper, and a band-aid joined it on the counter. He removed his pants and boxers.

His insides told him it had been too long, but his outsides told him it hadn't been long enough.

If asked, right at that moment, why, he wouldn’t have had a straight answer. Or would’ve given multiple replies that didn’t exactly make sense. He would’ve said it was because he was bored, then would’ve laughed at the irony and stupidity of that answer. No, no, it was because… He hadn’t done it in a while and wanted to keep the habit up. Because he liked to do it. Because it felt cleansing, it felt pure. Because he lived in Night Vale and therefore had every right to have a coping habit. Because he started to feel something wide and dark and yawning and void opening inside himself, and was taking care of it before it really started to get bad. Because without it, he was a terrible person, and everyone was better off if he kept doing it. Because it was a part of who he was, part of how he identified as a person.

It was a form of punishment. It was a form of pleasure. It was a way to feel alive, it was a way to feel empty. It filled him up. It cleansed him. It woke him up, it cooled him down, it made his blood run hot, it quelled the itching of his veins.

He’d been doing it so long that he didn’t really need to try to justify it to himself.

Sometimes (okay, lots of times) he felt bad that he did it. There were people who did it and had every reason to do it- they had rough lives and had been abused or neglected or had some sort of big thing in their life that justified their actions. Carlos- well, he had a very nice life. A textbook nuclear family- Mom and Dad who were supportive and fairly well off, raised him to have good work ethics, manners, and a respect for life, money, and others. Two older sisters who loved him. Maybe they picked on him a little, but there was never any physical violence. He'd never gotten into drugs or alcoholism or anything bad like that. He was a successful scientist in a nice house with a sexy, loving, kind boyfriend. There was nothing to justify his habit.

And yet, there he was, sanitizing a razor blade with a bit of rubbing alcohol, looking at his ruined hips and thighs for a new site.

What he really craved was to take at his wrists, the crook of his elbow, the back of his knees. Those were the places that held lightning and power, the high concentrations of nerves that sent electrical flares through his whole body, making him feel molten and alive and unstoppable. Those also happened to be the most obvious places. He could do his ribs- those were pretty painful, but there was the small problem with living with his boyfriend.

Things... Well. They were sort of intimate. They messed around some, but while Carlos had been giving gratuitous oral for almost a month, Cecil hadn't gotten farther than removing his shirt. Not because Carlos didn't want things to move farther- he was all but dying to go all the way and knew Cecil felt the same- but because he knew that if his boxers came off, Cecil would see the layers and layers of scars, some white, some purplish red. Parallel with the rest from that particular session, overlapping and going in different directions to others. His hips and thighs were almost covered with them.  He'd never had stitches, but some probably should have been sowed up. But it would only take one look for Cecil to know that he'd made a mistake. To know that Carlos was a mistake. He was postponing it until... Well, he had no plan, really. Just to postpone it as long as he could.

And until then... He would spend his time on the literal and metaphorical knife.

Left hip, he decided. It was a very calm, collected Carlos who held the blade to his skin, over the old, layered marks, and took a long, measured breath. This was not the best part, but it was something he certainly enjoyed. The moment where his still intact skin could feel precisely how thin and sharp the edge was. When it was his choice, to press on, or to put the blade away. Sometimes he simply pressed it to his skin and then picked everything up, just to prove to himself that he could. This would not be one of those times.

And then he contacted the muscles of his hand and moved the blade while maintaining pressure. His flesh split, and he felt the pain. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. But.

There was power in the pain. He caused the pain, so he made it his. It wasn't that he didn't feel it- oh no, he definitely felt it. It was that he rode it. Like an ocean riptide- if you swim against it, you drown. But if you go with it, if you let yourself sink, it will take you, it will simultaneously embrace you and empower you.

He watched as the cut slowly pooled with blood, pinching and pulling at it to encourage the flow. The first cut was always a little hesitant, the most shallow. The second was always the deepest, trying to make up for how shallow the first was.

He dug deep, and when he'd opened a good two inch line, he stopped and leaned against the wall to just breathe and bask in it. He felt emptied, clean, relaxed and at ease to the point that it was almost mellow. Later, he knew, after the fire of the antiseptic alcohol and the bandaging, he would have an excess of energy, jitters and a fierce joy. But now, he was underwater. Floating.

He cut six more times, never as deep as that second one, chasing the high until he knew it was gone. He dabbed at the sluggish beads of blood that had slid a little way down his leg with one square of toilet paper, then another. The third was soaked with rubbing alcohol and used to clean the parallel lines, making him gasp and clench his entire body. He ran his fingers over the lines. They felt like gills. One more square of paper to wipe up, and then a fat band-aid over the whole thing. He flushed the used tissue down the toilet, put the blade back in its perfect, invisible spot, and the rubbing alcohol away.

Perfect. Just in time for Cecil's show. He reclined on the couch as the radio turned on of its accord and his boyfriend’s chocolatey voice came across the waves. The eyes are the windows to the soul. So be careful of peeping toms, and don’t forget to latch up at night. Welcome to Night Vale…

When Cecil got home, he found nothing amiss as they got ready for bed and playfully debated over who got to be the little spoon. Life continued on, as much as it could in Night Vale. Cecil loved his job and his boyfriend. Carlos loved his job and his boyfriend and his habit, and everything seemed to be fine. He managed to juggle it all, keeping up with science, keeping Cecil happy, keeping himself happy.

Until he dropped the ball.

 


	2. Starving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was amazed at the feedback I got for this- I honestly expected this to be either ignored and have very few readers, or to get angry comments and such. Thank you all for being so openminded and tactful in your comments. I was so scared to post this, not just out of my own paranoia of it getting connected to me, but out of a fear of being responsible for others harming. What I want is to express that self harm is different for everyone, and to give people a hopeful story and something relate-able. What I DON'T WANT is to give people ideas on technique and tricks and how to hide it and best way to do it and the like.  
> Self harm is so misunderstood. Statistics for it are terrible, because most people won't admit it or talk about it, so there's no way to know how many people actually do it. It's kept under wraps so much that I can almost guarantee that everyone knows at least one person who self harms, but doesn't know that they do. It can be hidden well. It has no consistent 'signs' or 'symptoms'. There are so many different types of self harm and types of self harmers that there's really no way to group them or to identify them. It's more taboo than practically anything. I mean, the moment anything is brought up in a serious context about it, an uncomfortable tension falls and the subject is usually changed as soon as possible. I want to get the word out that it's a real thing. Via the internet, anonymously, of course ;D because I'm a big paranoid chicken.  
> Anyways. Here's the next chapter.

Carlos was feeling… unwell. It wasn’t a physical illness- there was nothing he had in his medicine cabinet that he could take for it. He could’ve tried Cecil’s extensive and somewhat fantastical liquor cabinet, but he knew from experience that this kind of unwellness would only get worse with alcohol. He just felt… extreme. One minute, he felt completely empty, like his insides had been replaced with a vacuum and it was all he could do not to crawl under his bed and curl up in a ball. His brain felt empty, he couldn’t think, he felt slow and small and void. And the next minute, he was so overwhelmed with everything, overflowing with sadness or anger, barely able to keep standing and not scream with sobs or scream with anger. He wanted to smash things with his hands and feet; he wanted to run out in the desert and bury himself in sand. And the crux of it all was that he knew exactly why he was such a mental-emotional train wreck.

He was in dire need of a dose of pain. His special brand of self-medication. He’d found himself so busy lately that when he got home, he just fell into bed. Which resulted in Cecil, every moment he wasn’t wrecked, wanting to spend time together. He couldn’t get a solid bit of time alone. Sure, he could do it in the shower, but the water everywhere always made him paranoid of getting red-tinted water somewhere and not noticing. Plus, bandages never stuck very well to his skin after a shower.

On top of all this, Cecil was testing the boundary of their intimacy. He wasn’t pushing Carlos or guilt-tripping him or trying to manipulate him. Carlos could’ve easily dealt with all of those. What he was doing instead was being overrun with a strange kind of guilt, that Carlos kept spending time on his knees, while he’d hardly given Carlos any pleasure at all. It was making him feel like a bad boyfriend, and it was killing Carlos to watch him struggle with self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. He thought of maybe trying to do something with all the lights off- but many of his scars weren’t flat, they were raised and textured that would be noticed even in the dark. And stressing over a solution was just making everything so much worse.

He was such a roller coaster that Cecil even seemed to pick up on it. Usually he was so good at keeping things battered down, smiling when he didn’t feel like it, putting on a facade. He just couldn’t find it in himself to put the happy face on. He just. Couldn’t. Cecil at first tried to comfort him, try to cheer him up with his favorite meal and a back rub. When that didn’t work, he tiptoed around him, which made Carlos feel even worse. It was further justification that he should never quit self harming- this was what he was without it. It was better for everyone.

It got bad enough that he managed to overcome his paranoia of being caught and do something about it. He sent Cecil to get some groceries, and the moment Cecil was out the door, he was in the bathroom, pulling the blade out with quick fingers, grabbing the things he needed while hopping out of his pants, undignified but too tightly wound to particularly care. ‘Not an addict’ be damned, he _needed_ it.

It was a great session, that one. In the absence of doing it for so long, it seemed his tolerance had gone down, allowing him to milk it an absurd amount. He let himself slide into that content stupor, each cut down his thigh making him feel lighter and lighter and lighter. He sat on the side of the tub and sighed happily, stretching his leg out in front of him and watching the slow-moving, fat droplets of blood change direction. The blade was between his thumb and forefinger, held lightly, as he lazily dragged another line. He felt so relaxed and at ease, finally, that he felt like he could do anything- and anything he couldn’t do didn’t matter anyways. It was all fine and good. He was exactly where and who and how he needed to be.

The front door opened, and Carlos flinched so hard he dropped the blade.

“Carlos! I’m back!” Cecil called as Carlos scrabbled on the floor for the blade, then scrubbing away any drops of blood that had scattered when he’d dropped the blade. He clumsily held a square of toilet paper to the cuts, swearing lightly as he could feel the blood seep through. He needed to bandage. No time for rubbing alcohol. He hurriedly rinsed the blade and jammed it back into its spot, then tore the band-aid open. It didn’t look good- the band-aid was too small for the cuts, the sticky part was going to be on some of the lacerations, but nothing was sticking out over the edges so he pressed it on anyways. It would be a mess to take off- it would rip the scabs off and possibly encourage scars, but he had no time.

“Carlos?” Cecil called again, and he could hear him coming down the hall. He fumbled to rinse his hands and flush the bloody toilet paper and band-aid wrapper down the toilet.

“Just a second,” he replied in as steady of a voice as he could. Which wasn’t very steady. He cringed at the sound of panic in his own voice, and silently chided himself to pull it together. He pulled his pants back on and frowned worriedly at the bandage, but he was wearing his black cargo shorts, so even if it seeped a little, it wouldn’t be visible on the dark fabric. It would be fine. It _would_ be _fine_.

He emerged, running a paranoid fifth glance over the counter to make sure there was no evidence, nothing he forgot to put away. So much for a relaxing, soothing session. But an extra bonus- the thrill of possibly getting caught was making the adrenaline spike even better. He all but bounced over to Cecil to press a kiss to his cheek, burning with the knowledge that he’d gotten away with it, again, that he was in control of the situation.

“Get anything good?” he asked cheerfully, peeking in the bags.

“There were those medjool dates you love on sale, so I got two of them,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “No juice, though- the juice cooler is still wrapped in caution tape and brambles. Be right back to help unpack it all, I’ve got to pee or I’m going to die,” he laughed, slipping out of his arm and going down the hall. Carlos smiled and began unpacking, but he glanced down the hall nervously, hoping that the bathroom would pass muster, that he had cleaned everything up.

He began unpacking the groceries with hands that shook slightly, opening the dates immediately and eating one, feeling stressed and very hungry. He kept peeking down the hall. _It’ll be fine. It will be fine. It WILL be fine_ , he silently told himself.

When Cecil emerged, he was frowning lightly, looking down at his hand. _Oh god oh god oh god_. Carlos turned to put the carrots in the fridge, unable to look anymore.

“Carlos, look at this.”

He straightened slowly and turned, feeling clammy and like he was going to pass out suddenly. The room seemed massive and Cecil far away, rather than just two steps.

“Hm?” he managed, trying to look interested and not paranoid or panicked.

“This is probably the worst hangnail I’ve ever had, what the heck! I didn’t even notice how I got it,” Cecil whined, holding out his hand to show him his finger.

Relief. Sweet relief. _It’s all fine_. Carlos laughed slightly, and when Cecil scowled at his apparent laughing at his pain, Carlos caught his hand and pressed a kiss to his finger.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he laughed, placing quick pecks up his finger and hand and arm, making Cecil giggle. It was all fine- no reason to worry. Cecil put his hands on Carlos’s hips, pulling him in for a little hug.

“I think I might have one on my lip, too. A hangnail, or something,” he playfully pouted, tilting his head up.. Carlos rolled his eyes at his theatrics, but grinned and kissed his mouth regardless.

“You’re silly. You can’t get hangnails on your lips,” Carlos pointed out.

“Oh yeah? You wait till you celebrate shark week with me.”

“How exactly does one celebrate shark week? Aside from, you know, just watching every shark-related thing on TV?”

“You’ll see,” Cecil said coyly, leaning in to nibble at his neck. “Now c’mon, I’m hungry and I got the groceries, so you have to cook.”

“But I spent all day over a bunsen burner, now you’re telling me I have to spend my evening over an oven?” he groaned.

“You should’ve gotten the groceries, then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear I'm neglecting my other fics to write this one- I've got a lot of plans for it, and I think I've got an ambiguous idea for how I'm going to end it. I think. I've got the next three chapters written up, and everything after that is still in my head, waiting to be written down. I may be neglecting studying for my upcoming biochemistry test writing this, but you know how it goes- when you have to get something written, you can do little else but write.


	3. A Treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I haven't updated any of my fics in a while- this one or my other Victorian AU, Otherworldly. Well, here's some updates for the stories, and updates about me: If I survive this week it'll be a miracle. I'm going home this weekend for some much needed R&R, recharging in the northern woods. What I really need is a few days alone. I've gone way over my socializing quota and feel like I'm worn thin. I miss having the apartment to myself. Ugh. Sorry about the rant. Read on.  
> Also, this chapter introduces a self-harm style that could either be extremely triggering or not at all. I think it was just the description of it that I thought could be very triggering. It could not give people a problem, if they've never gone this route. Idunno. Just be warned that, over the course of this story, I'll probably touch on every flavor of harming known to mankind, because science.

They were on the couch with the TV on. It had been on Cecil’s favorite show, _I Love Lucy_ , but neither of them knew what was on by now. It had begun innocently enough- Carlos had tucked himself under Cecil’s arm and completely accidentally drifted off on his chest. When he woke, Cecil had rearranged him so his head was in his lap and was stroking his hair sweetly. He’d smiled and sleepily buried his face against him, which happened to be right against his crotch, and the little noise Cecil had made was so perfect that he couldn’t help but draw out another, and another, and another…

And everything led to everything and it all progressed until Cecil was straddling Carlos’s hips, shirt gone and pants unbuttoned, with Carlos’s hands on his hips, staring up at him with something much like awe. Carlos’s shirt was gone and pants were gone and there was a lovely round red mark swelling slightly just over his collarbone.

Cecil gave two slow, sinuous gyrations of his hips, his whole body rippling like a snake, and then he slid down Carlos’s body, mouthing down his stomach until he was crouched between his legs. It was all the scientist could do to just watch him with hooded eyes.

The Night Vale native lightly pressed his lips to the prominent bulge in Carlos’s boxers, and his breathing stuttered.

“Cecil,” he gasped, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Shh. Let me take care of you. Let me show you how much I love you,” he replied, mouth so close to Carlos’s cock that he could practically feel the slow waves of his low, smooth voice. His thumbs slid over the material of his boxers, resting for a moment on the waistband before slipping below them-

Carlos startled and fell off the couch in a scrambling mess of limbs.

Cecil groaned loudly and angrily, flopping down onto the couch and pressing his face in the cushions, abandoning the sexy ass-up-back-curved pose.

“Cecil, I’m sorry,” Carlos stammered, but the flat look with only one eye made him stop.

“Why don’t you ever…?” Cecil trailed off, pulling his knees up and rolling to watch Carlos get up and step into his jeans.

“I just… I’m not ready.”

“We live together, Carlos. And how can you only be half-ready like this? I mean, if you’re ready to put your mouth all over me, then how can you not be ready for me to reciprocate? It’s just… I… I want you-,”

“I take care of you, I do what I can-,”

“No, I mean, I want you to want me. You don’t.. You just don’t do anything. Why would you rather take care of your own blue balls when you have me?”

“It’s not like that, it’s not you-,”

“Carlos, if you pull the _it’s not you it’s me_ line I swear I’m going to come unglued, maybe even literally. You really can’t explain any better than that? This all- this constant rejection, pulling away, all of it- am I not good enough? Is there something I’m doing wrong, or that you think I’ll do wrong?”

“No, of course not-,”

“Then what is it? Is it another ‘Night Vale thing’?” He closed his eyes for a long moment longer than a standard blink. “Do I scare you or something? Because I just- I’ll do what you say, if that’s what it takes, I won’t do anything without your permission. I just want… ugh. Do you see why I could think you don’t want me?”

“I do, I really do, and I’m sorry, but there’s… I just… I can’t.”

The emotion in Cecil’s eyes was worse than disappointment or sadness. It was almost… expectant. Unsurprised. Like he knew Carlos was going to turn him down again.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said abruptly, getting up and walking right out the door, no jacket, no cell phone, no keys. He closed it behind him without slamming it- gently and cautiously, like always. Carlos had rather him slammed it- this showed him that rejection had become as normal as walking out to work every morning.

Carlos spent a long while in the bathroom. Not ‘taking care of blue balls’, like Cecil had so articulately described. But just making the problem worse, giving him more reasons to keep turning Cecil down, to keep the distance between them. Giving him more lines.

He knew that it wasn’t the solution- it was the problem. But he’d never been much of a planner. He took each day as it was, not thinking about the future or the long-reaching implications of his behavior. He’d moved in with his boyfriend while hiding this, for goodness sakes. And in that moment, he needed to cut, so cut he did. He sadly acknowledged that he and Cecil wouldn’t be intimate again for a week, maybe more, so treated himself to something extra.

Ribs were a marvelous place to work. Bones were close to the surface, so there wasn’t as much soft give of the flesh, or moving of the skin beneath his sharp of choice. Nerve endings were plentiful there. And it was a nice change from the repetitive abuse of his hips. But if he wanted it to be healed in a week, he couldn’t use his razor. Not to worry, he knew what to do. He’d been doing it for a very, very long time. He could harm himself with practically anything, something he took both pride and shame from.

The safety pin (‘safety’, ha) made an audible tearing sound as he dragged it down his ribs. He wasn’t especially skinny, but he was pressing enough that he could feel it bump over each rib. He watched in fascination, like the hand holding the pin belonged to someone else, as he started at the top and drew another line- pressing the tip of the pin against his skin, perpendicular to his flesh, and dragged it down almost to his hip. He saw white and red and black and leaned his head back as he went the last inch, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

It was less of a slice and more of a scratch, deeper in some places than others, ragged edges and little catches of skin here and there. It looked a little rougher than a cat scratch, a little less deep. More like getting scratched with a thorn or scraping on the corner of something. There were six of them, about seven inches long, beading a little bit of blood, but not much. Mostly it just pooled in the cut.

There weren’t band-aids big enough for it, so he put a little gauze over it and carelessly taped it with sports tape. A black t-shirt went over that, so even if it did start bleeding enough to seep, it wouldn’t show.

He pressed a hand against the scratches, hard, and simultaneously winced and grinned at the pain. It was more of a burning pain than the sharp electricity of cutting with a razorblade. Its flavor was cyan, as opposed to the lemon-sharp-awakening taste of a cut with a blade.

Every day, he would rub lotion and vaseline into it to help it heal faster and keep it from scarring. He did love his scars, but he knew they would get him caught one day, and for that, he hated them. It was such a strange thing.

When Cecil returned, Carlos was sitting at the counter with two mugs of hot chocolate, as much of a peace offering as he could.

“You’re still up,” Cecil observed, rubbing his arms, looking a bit chilled. He hadn’t grabbed a jacket, and Carlos knew that, even though it was well above 50 degrees, Cecil was a native desert dweller and that was cold for him.

“Yeah. I... I couldn’t sleep until I knew you were home safe,” Carlos admitted. “I made hot chocolate. I made it half an hour ago or so, but it’s still hot. I, er, microwaved them every ten minutes. I didn’t know when you’d be back,” he said, looking at his hands folded in his lap.

Cecil crossed the room silently, and the sound of his bare feet padding lightly on the floor was familiar and soothing. Before he sat down, he ducked down and kissed the top of Carlos’s head.

“I’m sorry I said those things. And sorry I worried you.”

Carlos wanted to crawl in the ground.

It was his fault, and Cecil was apologizing. He’d been the one who kept pushing him away, stubbornly maintaining the distance, and not even telling him why. He’d been the one who had the self-destructive tendency. He’d been the one who sat in a bathroom and felt all sad and rather than working to solve it, opened up line after line on his ribs. Pathetic. He didn’t deserve someone like Cecil.

He subtly pressed his elbows tighter against his sides, putting pressure on his ribs and relishing the burn, letting it ground him before he did something stupid, like started crying, or worse, told Cecil the truth.

 


	4. Indulge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look who's back  
> (hint: it's me)

He was having a wonderful day. The night before, he’d gone home late, discouraged with what he was working on, but in the morning, with fresh eyes, he found the extra constant that seemed to control how frequently gravity started and stopped on the last Sunday of the week. After that, he, Maud, Caleb, and Erich had gone on a field trip to investigate the old tree about a mile out in the sand wastes that was struck by lightning at 4 minutes to midnight, every night, no matter the weather.

It was merry work. Maud was his best friend- they were belligerent and brilliant, a botanist with the peculiar addition of an electrical engineering major, so the tree had been their thing. They’d been looking forward to going to investigate it all week. Caleb was a master electrician and had a great dry sense of humor, and Carlos suspected that Maud had a crush on him, something he poked fun at every opportunity. Erich was a bit of a dumbass, but he was the meteorologist, specializing in storms. They’d collected a plethora of samples and tested everything they could think of, taking a break to have a nice picnic on the back of the truck.

After work, Carlos had surprised Cecil by picking him up at work- it looked like rain, and the radio host had biked that morning. And the way he complained about rain, one would’ve thought he was made of sugar.

Cecil had teased him for being dusty and dirty and sweaty, so he’d gone to shower. For no reason other than that he felt like it, he’d decided to cut in the shower. There was no rush, and he was feeling like a lazy session, where he didn’t need to worry about cleanup and not dripping on the floor or wiping the aftermath down with rubbing alcohol. He was having a nice day, so why not? He wanted to indulge after a day’s work well done. Some people enjoyed a glass of wine at the end of a good day, or a cigar, or a favorite movie. This was his glass of wine, but a bit more… red. And viscous.

He washed thoroughly first (infections were the things of nightmares) dust and grit spiraling down the drain, and then orangey-red bloody water, and grinned at the phenomenal surface tension of the water on the little piece of steel. He let the water run down over himself, cleaning it and washing away the blood until it ran nearly clear. After, he’d been sure to dry very well, waiting until the last minute before bandaging so that it would stick properly. He put the blade away, finished dressing, and left the bathroom.

“Supper’s ready. Let me just go wash my face, I think the mixer flung some flour at me and it’s itchy,” Cecil said, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

“I’ll set the table,” Carlos replied, snickering. “And yeah, you’ve got flour all over your nose.”

Cecil groaned and rolled his eyes and went to the bathroom. It was a good thing Carlos had just set the plates down and had nothing in his hands, or else he probably would’ve dropped whatever he was holding.

“Carlos? Could you come here?” Cecil called. He sounded worried.

Carlos immediately began worrying. He went down the hall to the bathroom hesitantly, trying to breathe through his mouth. _Please please please don’t let me throw up._

“Hm?” he managed.

“It smells like blood in here. Are you alright?” he asked, furrowing his brow and sniffing delicately.

“I don’t smell blood,” he answered quickly.

“Well, _I_ do.”

“I just, uh, cut my foot at work today,” he lied, trying not to blink.

“You did? Oh Carlos, are you okay?” Cecil exclaimed, glancing down at his feet. “Which one? Should I look at it?”

“No! No, I mean… it’s fine. Just a little cut. I’m a scientist, I’ve got it all taken care of.”

“Still, maybe I should help. I had to take some basic medical training to work at NVCR- of course, it’s more like field doctor work, battle field situations, you know? But still, I’m worried,” he said, touching his upper arm gently.

“No no, that’s not… necessary. My feet are really ticklish when other people touch them and I don’t want to make it worse,” he said rapidly, mentally patting himself on the back. “And I’ve got gross feet. Not like yours- some of us get hairy club feet, some of us get soft ballerina feet,” he added, forcing a smile.

“Oh… well, if you’re certain,” Cecil shrugged, ducking to kiss him and blushing lightly. “Be more careful next time. And you can just tell me, don’t make me worry like that. And- you do _not_ have club feet, they’re perfectly lovely.”

“Not as lovely as yours,” Carlos laughed nervously, forcing him to meet his eyes.

Self-reliance was the first thing a scientist was. Followed by a few other things, like inquisitive and progressive and cautious and the like. But being an accomplished liar was the 12th thing a scientist was.

He was still careful to wear closed-toe shoes and not be barefoot for about a week after, so Cecil wouldn’t see the lack of a wound.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I'll post again either tonight or tomorrow because this is so itty bitty. But this is one of the built-in stops I've got.


	5. Full of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the worst of the triggery chapters are out of the way for a little bit, at least.

The luck he’d had with not getting caught ran out without warning.

Other times when he’d nearly gotten caught, it was his fault. He’d been overly confident or rushed it or been careless or something. Then, he’d deserved to be caught, but somehow had slipped free and gotten back in the safe. Every time. He grew confident. But it wasn’t even the confidence that got him caught, it was a small accident that could’ve happened at any time.

He’d cut just before Cecil had gotten home, a last minute thing. He didn’t feel compelled to do it, like some times, but he’d just glanced at the clock, realized Cecil was coming home, and decided to sneak one in while he still had time. And he did have time, he cut his right hip to ribbons and wiped it all down with rubbing alcohol (he had the window cracked to prevent the smell from lingering) and bandaged up and was back in the kitchen, getting a bottle of water, when Cecil got home.

“Hi. How was work?” he asked, standing and twisting the lid to the bottle.

“Great! I just finished Daneca’s training, so I won’t have any more late nights for a while. I hope,” he said, grimacing.

“She’ll do fine. I mean, she’s no Dana, but she’s not as bad as Wendy,” he reassured him, stepping over for a kiss. “What would you like for supper? It’s my turn to cook and I don’t have any ideas.”

“It’s been getting chilly out, I’d love some kind of soup,” Cecil mused.

“I have a taco soup recipe that I bet you’d like, and I think we have all the things for it,” Carlos said decidedly, leaning down to get the big pot for soup. When he rightened, Cecil stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, ducking down to tuck his face into his shoulderblade.

“You tired?” Carlos said laughing slightly,

"Mmm. I suppose. I didn't sleep well last night. I shouldn't have had that chocolate-dipped rhubarb so soon before bed, it gave me strange dreams. Or it could've been another random delivery, Restless Subconscious," he mused, giving Carlos a squeeze before releasing him.

"I told you that you shouldn't have signed up for that," Carlos chided gently. Cecil wasn't paying attention.

"Is this blood?" he asked. Carlos looked at him. He was looking at his hand-the hand that had been pressed lovingly against his hip.

"No." His immediate denial was his damnation. If he had said yes, then maybe he could've come up with an excuse. But just a sudden, uncertain 'no'- well.

He could see it all play out across Cecil's emotive face. A glance down and a blink, affirming that it was blood. A confused glance up- why would Carlos lie? A worried, hurt look, as he realized a lie meant he was hiding something.

"Yes, it is. Why is there blood... On your pants?" he tried again, stepping forward and reaching out to touch his hip to double check. Carlos couldn't help but take a step back, and Cecil pulled his hand to his chest, looking wounded.

"I. Uh."

Not breaking eye contact, Cecil sniffed the faint red damp on his hand. "This is your blood. What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Carlos."

He swallowed rapidly. Was he going to throw up? He was going to throw up. He had no words, and avoided Cecil's eyes, leaned against the counter and fought the urge to just run like a teenager or something.

A gentle hand laid itself on his arm. Cecil's hand, long delicate fingers and purple nail polish in support of the upcoming Spiderwolves game. He looked at it and swallowed again. He felt cornered. He felt like he was going to throw up. Cecil still looked confused and worried, he hadn't put it together yet, but there was no preventing him from finding out now.

The other hand went to his hip, and he shivered and breathed. It felt like all the air had been forcibly pushed from his lungs, like there was a pressure on his ribcage that prevented him from getting enough air.

"Cecil," he managed to force out. "I don't... know... how to explain this."

“Explain what?” Cecil said pressingly. “How did this happen? Come on, let’s go to the bathroom so I can bandage you up,” he said, trying to stay cheerful. He took his hand and led him gently to the bathroom. Carlos wanted to sit down, but Cecil was already unbuttoning his pants. The need to vomit was gone, replaced by a strange distance from his body, like he was in a dream, or having a slight out-of-body experience. He watched blindly as Cecil carefully slid them down, with his boxers, leaving him feeling uncomfortable and exposed and wanting to cover up- but his need wasn’t to cover his genitals, it was to cover the years of damage that wove across his skin like barbed wire.

Cecil was kneeling in front of him, but despite Carlos’s nudity and the position Cecil was in, the situation was as nonsexual as it could be. He was kneeling at his leg, anyways, slightly to the side. Those almond-shaped violet eyes flicked up to meet Carlos’s gaze for a moment, full of confusion.

Fingertips brushed over the lines, and Carlos trembled, flinching back slightly. He folded his arms over his stomach, waiting for it. They brushed over the bandage.

Carlos wasn’t sure what the chance of getting a faulty bandage was, or what the bandaid company used for statistical process control, or how their variance charts looked, but he was fairly sure the chances were low. A simple error of badly layered cloth and adhesive and plastic had resulted in the bandage simply soaking up the blood from the wound and leaking it out the other side.

And there it was. The moment of revelation, surprise, shock, horror, fear, pity, in that order. As the pity flooded into Cecil’s face, he locked eyes with Carlos again.

“You… you did this to yourself.” It wasn’t a question.

“...yeah.”

He touched the bandaid that had leaked again, fingers red as though he’d eaten a box of especially juicy, half-crushed raspberries. There really was a lot of blood. Carlos thought, half hysterically, half in shock, that he should write a letter to the company.

“Why?”

Strangely, Carlos resisted the urge to laugh. The moment when the shock and fear and sadness all culminated into a peculiar bout of hysteria, something he’d experienced once at his grandfather’s funeral. He had no idea what to say.

“I don’t know.” He did know, he just couldn’t express it in words.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon! On another note, how did everyone like ep 47? Wasn't it just LOVELY?


	6. The Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a massive monologue, for the most part, and I apologize for that- I, personally, have never liked monologues that much, but it's a necessary part of the story.
> 
> Also, I've been so impressed and amazed at how many people have commented or contacted me saying they can relate, or that they have experience with this, or that it hits close to home. It's taken me years to be able to post something like this (and I've got about eight stories like this written that I was too scared to post) and even now, I'm paranoid and terrified and scared. YOU GUYS ARE SO BRAVE. Group hug! (not Kevin style please and thank you.)

“I don’t know.” He did know, he just couldn’t express it in words.

Cecil sank down on his heels and looked defeated. Mindlessly, Carlos reached into the medicine cabinet, retrieved a new bandaid. He pulled the old one off, wiped the blood with a piece of toilet paper, rebandaged it and redressed, trying not to look at Cecil. Take care of the cut. That was about the only thing he could take care of. Everything else was so far out of his control he didn’t even know what to think or do. How had this happened? How had this happened so suddenly?

Cecil watched all of this, his usually bright and emotive face blank and all but sagging with some unnamable emotion- grief, disappointment, horror, defeat.

Carlos couldn’t handle standing over him, so he sat down on the floor with his back to the tub. He was glad he did- the moment he was down, his kneecaps began shivering and he was sure they wouldn’t be able to hold him. The room was silent, and Carlos realized Cecil wasn’t going to ask another question. He’d rendered the Voice voiceless. The crack inside him splintered farther, gaping wider, and he couldn’t stand the silence, so he began talking, breaking down the dam and releasing the flood of what he’d never said to anyone.

“I’m sorry… I, uh, do know. I… I’ve been doing it for a really long time. Before high school, but not long before. I don’t even remember the first time I did it, I just know when it started, it wasn’t even anything. It was just… I’d read a book and it mentioned it, and a friend talked about it at a debate team field trip once, we were all staying at a hotel and we were just talking, you know, playing some game about confessing stuff- truth or dare, I thing. God, that was so middle school. Really, it was just an excuse to talk about stuff we never talked about. And one guy admitted that he did it… that he was a ‘cutter’. I was… it sounded nice.” He shook his head and laughed hoarsely at himself. “I don’t know, it just sounded mysterious and otherworldly and dark. And I guess I was… jealous,” he breathed, unable to talk at full volume. Letting the words out was strange enough, it was as if talking in a low voice made them less or something.

“I wanted a bad habit, like every other thirteen-year-old, I wanted to break the rules, but I didn’t want to go out and get drunk or do drugs or steal things. This guy, he had something that made everyone shut up and listen to him, and I was just… a background thing. So well behaved, too. I always did all my homework and listened to my parents and I never did anything bad, and I saw an opportunity. I wanted to break the rules, to have something that made everyone go all quiet and amazed.”

“He talked about it with this weird shame and reverence, and when he talked, his eyes got this faraway look, and everyone had this shocked and impressed and horrified expression. He suddenly seemed so much cooler, so much… more. I felt like I wanted to be more. And it all made sense, and as far as habits went, it wasn’t as long-lasting and destructive as other things that people got into- drugs and alcohol. I understood how exactly it worked, I thought. It was all just science. Chemistry, neuroscience, physiology- that’s it, really. I did more research after, to make sure I was right. And I was.” The words flowed easier as he explained the science behind it and he managed to detach himself from the conversation.

“Essentially, when someone gets hurt, their body has a protective action sequence that happens. The sympathetic nervous system kicks in, because it thinks they’re in a fight. They feel energized, and the other subtle changes are miraculous- their vision actually becomes sharper as pupils dilate to try to take in everything that’s going on, all senses become stronger, heart beats stronger, muscles are flooded with oxygen. Everything is made stronger. On top of activating the sympathetic nervous system, there are studies that show it also releases endorphins, to combat the pain, and endorphins make them happy. It’s a feeling of almost joy. And there may be testosterone and other aggression-inducing hormones released, because in an actual fight, I would want to be angry and unhindered with sympathy or kindness. The end result is like… a fierce euphoria, ready for anything. I feel like nothing can stop me, nothing can pull me down, I am higher and stronger and _so alive_.” He didn’t notice when he switched to first person in his explanation.

“So… that’s the science behind it. My research confirmed all of what I suspected. I wanted to try it. I remember the first time I tried- it was with a dull little penknife my father had given me. I doubt  it could’ve cut anything harder than butter. It didn’t work. I remember sitting in my room with the door closed, pressing it against my arm and dragging it across my skin and giving up, disappointed in myself. I felt weak, embarrassed. I couldn’t even hurt myself properly. I, um… I  don’t recall, exactly, when I tried again, or the first time I actually did it. I think it might’ve been with a pair of scissors. It was so long ago, and I’ve… I’ve done it so many times, they’ve started to kind of blend together, I guess.

“I only did it on my arm a few times. I was so scared of getting caught. I moved on to my ankle. The only reason I’d ever even tried my arms was because I thought that was where you were ‘supposed’ to do it. I did it on the inside of my ankle. I didn’t do it much. Once a week, maybe less. I don’t remember. Just four lines or so, half an inch long, parallel, very shallow.

“Somehow it turned into more than I’d anticipated. I thought about it all the time. I began to get creative, looking for new tools. Once, when I was home alone, I smashed one of those cheap disposable shaving razors with a hammer, and took the blades. I found a few replaceable boxcutter blades in my father’s shed and used those. I unscrewed a pencil sharpener and took the blades. I eventually tried other places on my body- my shins, the crease of my elbow, my wrist. I would bring the blades to school, in my wallet, and I would go to the bathroom during study hall and make little dash marks on my wrist with it, barely two millimeters long. They were just there for the blood. Hemp bracelets were in fashion, luckily, even for men.

“I told a few people- the one or two girlfriends I had, while we were dating. I always said I’d quit, I never said I was actively doing it. I remember, once- we were at a cafe with a few other friends, and my current girlfriend was making a big deal about one of her best friends, who apparently had grabbed a knife by the blade the night before, in a fit of rage, and purposely cut herself on it. And my girlfriend was going berserk, texting people and freaking out. I politely excused myself to the bathroom, and that was the first time I cut my thigh. I had a bandaid in my wallet, just in case, and after I returned, nobody said anything to me, they were so caught up in the drama, and I didn’t say another word for the entire night.

“A lot of it just became habit, after that. I went through waves of it- doing it every day, or more than once a day for a few months, then a year without doing it at all, and then three years of exactly once a week. It was never consistent- just as much or as little as I needed it. I experimented with different kind of hurts- burning, scalding, bruising, scratching, cutting. They all have different effects, all have their pros and cons. I’ve used every sharp object you can imagine to draw blood, and every blunt object you can imagine to bruise, and every heat source you can imagine to burn. It’s like… like a hobby, or something. Collecting harm. I don’t know.”

He couldn’t talk anymore- his throat felt so dry he thought it was going to peel and slough off. He’d directed all his words at his knees, unable to look at Cecil, or to move his eyes, hardly able to blink.

It was silent again. His hip throbbed, and he was glad for the pain to anchor him, he needed it in this time- and then he was guilty for being glad. And then he was defiant that he could be glad of it, he didn’t need to feel guilty, he’d done nothing all that wrong.

Everything felt complicated and he wanted it to go back to the way it was.

“Say something,” he said, pushing the words out.

“You didn’t say why. You said _how_ , and _where_ , and _when_ , but not _why_.”

Carlos opened his mouth but nothing came out.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment whatever you need to say, I won't hate on anyone or judge anyone. Any rude comments toward me will remain. Any rude comments toward other readers will be removed. I want this to be as honest and free and safe as possible. Like I said, if you need to talk, I'm on tumblr, my URL is fauxfoxfanatics.tumblr.com feel free to contact me anytime, my ask box is open and I will reply privately.


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